


After the Siege

by Mint_and_Cinnamon



Series: The Many Faces of Sansa Stark [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence after S05E06, Arranged Marriage, Dark!Sansa, F/M, Madness, Manipulation, Other, Quest for Power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:45:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mint_and_Cinnamon/pseuds/Mint_and_Cinnamon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark won the Siege of Winterfell for Stannis and brought about the Boltons' deaths, but her troubles are far from over. Stannis is planning to marry her off to one of his knights, Theon grows ever more deranged and now, the Lannisters are marching north from Riverrun. Sansa must use every ounce of cunning she possesses if she is to remain the Lady of Winterfell...</p><p>A sequel to my last fic, 'After the Wedding'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I just couldn't stop wondering what Sansa would do after my last fic ended, so now this has happened. Enjoy!

If it were not for the winter snows raging outside the walls of Winterfell, Stannis Baratheon would have locked Sansa in her room for months on end.

As it was, he only managed it for two days.

He had taken her late husband’s head and placed it on a spike by the Northern Gate, and while she was grateful for that, it didn’t stop her wishing that Stannis would take his army and go home. But unfortunately for her, Ramsay Bolton had gone to his death screaming about his dynasty, and how his son was going to avenge his death, and Stannis Baratheon had seen fit to lock her in her room for it.

She had spent the majority of the first day pounding on her bedroom door and yelling through the keyhole, demanding to see the king. Ser Davos had tried to dissuade her, but she had been adamant, and within the best part of two hours King Stannis had marched into her room, so stern and unyielding that he may well have been an iron bar on legs.

“Lady Stark,” he said, gruffly, “Ser Davos tells me you’re unhappy with your confinement.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she began, but Stannis cut across her.

“You are not a prisoner, Lady Stark,” he said, “you are here for your own protection. Your husband said you were with child; I will keep you here for as long as it takes to discover the truth. Has your moon’s blood come?”

Sansa went scarlet. Behind the king, Ser Davos flinched at the question.

“Your Grace,” he said, “Lady Stark is –”

“She’s a woman grown and twice-married. She’s been at the Lannisters’ court; it’ll take more than that to shock her. Well, Lady Stark?”

“It is not yet my time, Your Grace.”

Stannis gave her a brusque nod. “Very well. You shall stay here until it comes, then I shall find you a husband.”

Sansa darted forward. “But Your Grace,” she implored, “I must prepare the castle for winter! If I don’t make the proper arrangements, my people could starve!”

“My men will handle the preparations, Lady Stark.”

“But Your Grace, Northern winters are much harsher than the ones your men are used to! To properly prepare the castle, you must be familiar with Winterfell and the North, and –”

“Good day, Lady Stark.”

He left, locking the door behind him, and Sansa seethed.

She need not have worried.

Within an hour, Stannis’s lords were knocking on her door with an endless stream of questions. It transpired that their king had tasked them all with preparing the castle for winter, and none of them were familiar with Winterfell or the harsh northern winters.

She answered their questions very carefully. Her instructions were long and complicated, she told them to seek out long-dead castellans, and she never told two knights the same thing. When they came back to her bedroom door, confused and irritated, she feigned surprise, and lamented that she was not able to look into the matter herself.

Stannis knocked on her door on the third day, his mouth pressed into a thin line. She got to her feet and curtsied when she saw him, smiling innocently.

“I’m altering the terms of your confinement,” he snapped, ignoring her attempt at a civil greeting. “You will be allowed to leave your chamber and prepare the castle, but there must be attendants with you at all times. They will report back to me on everything you do. D’you understand?”

Sansa beamed. “Oh, thank you, Your Grace!”

Stannis said nothing.

* * *

 

 

She had been right; only a Northerner could prepare for a true Northern winter.

She sent out foraging and hunting parties to gather as much food as they could; it was sent down to the kitchens for preserving as soon as it was brought in. She sent out men to the fringes of the wolfswood, too, so that they could cut swathes of trees into logs for the many fires she would need to light. She had gone into Winter Town and offered a sliver stag for every wolf pelt brought to the castle, and a gold dragon for every bearskin.

But in truth, most of her resources came from House Bolton.

Walda Frey had been brought before Stannis Baratheon as well, but she had not been nearly as convincing as Sansa had. Sansa was not sure if it had been her pregnant belly or her hated name that had worked against her, but regardless, Lady Walda had been confined to her room and ownership of the Dreadfort had passed to Sansa.

She had sent a party of warriors down there, all of them dragging empty wagons, and had told them to strip the place. Any food was to be preserved as best they could. Anything made of wood was to be hacked to pieces and brought back for Winterfell’s hearths. She gave them leave to distribute any clothes among themselves: after bringing most of their men to Winterfell, she doubted that the Boltons would have left much behind. Any weapons went to the armoury, along with any chainmail, boiled leather or plate armour, and anything of value was to brought straight back to Winterfell’s keep. She had even told them to bring back as much stone as they could carry, to strengthen her own castle walls – and to seal up the passageway she had shown to Stannis Baratheon’s army.

Theon had wailed like a child when he had seen the first of the wagons returning from the Dreadfort. He spent most of his time hovering around the North Gate, staring up at the Boltons’ rotting heads as if he could not tell if they were real. Something inside him had snapped when the Boltons were defeated, and while she had sent him to the maester more than once, it showed no signs of mending. He still managed to sneak out to the gates and sob by the wagons, howling like a wounded animal.

It made her heart break to see it. She had ordered some men to keep him away from the gates, but she would not stop sending out the wagons.

By the time she was done with it, the Dreadfort would be a hollow, ruined pit.

* * *

 

 

Preparing Winterfell for the coming snows was surprisingly tiring. She spent most of her days marching around the castle, traipsing between the kitchens and the food stores, the glass-house and the armoury, and the wood-stores and the lord’s audience chamber. She had a long stream of small-folk to see, as well – all of whom had some grievance against the Boltons that they wanted her to resolve. It was tiresome work, but she enjoyed it: many of them were familiar faces, and it gave her comfort to see them again.

Unfortunately, she did it all with a retinue of Stannis Baratheon’s choosing.

If it had only been the meek, shy girl who had waited on Princess Shireen, she would not have minded. The girl’s name was Wylla, she was thirteen years old and she was so painfully shy that the act of speaking in front of strangers seemed to physically hurt her. Stannis had chosen her to chaperone Sansa, and report back on everything she did. Sansa was kind to her; she was a sweet little thing, with very large, intelligent eyes. She was so scared of the king that she would tell him everything that Sansa did, and Sansa was certain that she would see everything.

But Wylla was not her only companion. An endless stream of Stannis’s knights followed her everywhere she went, each of them desperate to turn her head and be named Stannis’s Warden of the North.

There was Ser Clifford Swann, with a broad, pockmarked face and a squat little body, who told her she was beautiful. There was Ser Jon Mertyn, who was missing the last six inches of his right leg; he had replaced it with a carefully carved wooden limb that clunked along the ground whenever he came towards her. There was Ser Lomas Estermont, who was old enough to be her grandsire but had still managed to sneak into the glass-house and bring her back a fistful of blue winter roses. She rebuffed them all as politely as she could and tried not to clench her teeth when she smiled.

She could get away from them occasionally, but she could never get away from Ser Harys Cobb.

He was everywhere she turned. He stood behind her chair in the lord’s chamber when she received the small-folk. If she walked across the courtyard, he would spring up out of nowhere and offer her his arm. If she tried to pray in the godswood, he would stand two feet away from her and talk ceaselessly about his Red God.

If she was younger – more innocent, more trusting – she might have been flattered. He was certainly handsome enough, with shoulder-length brown hair, strong, fine bones and clear grey eyes. But she remembered how he had smirked at her when he saw her holding a sword, and how he had glared at her when he had found out that she had married into the Boltons.

She did not trust him one bit.

He was with her now, even after she had managed to send all her other suitors away. She walked along the walls of Winterfell, picking her way through the snow and casting an eye over the defences. Every time her foot slid so much as an inch across the ice, he would spring forward, offering her his arm. Wylla bobbed along behind them, slipping on the packed-down snow.

“…and of course, the Lady Melisandre will want to see you as soon as she can, Lady Stark. You really must sit down and talk with her; I’m sure she will have better luck than I in convincing you to abandon those silly tree spirits…”

Sansa took a deep breath and gave him a dazzling smile.

“I’m sure that she and I would have many fascinating things to talk about. But I’m so busy that I hardly know when I shall find the time to speak to her! So many things require my attention…”

Ser Harys talked right over her. “But you must speak to her, Lady Stark! She would make you see…”

“Perhaps you would be so good as to fetch her for me, Ser Harys?” she said, wishing he would slip on the ice and knock out all his teeth. They were pretty teeth, but she would like him better if he wasn’t able to talk so much.

Ser Harys hesitated. She could see his eyes flickering around as he searched for an excuse.

“I think the Lady Melisandre is busy now, my lady.”

A yelp came from somewhere behind them and Sansa turned around. Wylla had slipped on the ice; fortunately, the walls were wide and she had not fallen.

“Oh, you poor dear! Are you all right?”

Wylla turned scarlet and nodded. Seizing her chance, Sansa turned to Ser Harys.

“Ser Harys, would you be so kind as to give Wylla your arm? I just know that with someone as strong as _you_ supporting her, she would never miss a step!”

Ser Harys smirked, puffing out his chest. He helped Wylla up and gave her his arm; she took it as though it was made of gold. Sansa turned away, smiling.

Just then, a messenger sprinted towards her. It was Gerold, a young boy who helped the maester with his ravens. He skidded on the pressed-down snow, almost toppling forward, and only staying upright when he seized one of the crenellations for support. Sansa ran towards him and helped him to his feet.

“Message from Riverrun, milady,” he gasped, his face red.

He handed her a little scroll. It had her uncle Brynden’s seal; the Tully trout pressed into black wax. She ripped it open at once, and what she saw made a pit open up inside her.

_The Lannisters are coming_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks for the feedback :) Hope you enjoy the chapter!

Sansa’s hands were shaking so badly that the scroll seemed to flutter in the wind.

_The Lannisters are coming…_

All at once it was as if she had never left King’s Landing. The old fear came rushing back, so strong and quick that she almost wanted to run and hide behind her mother’s skirts. It did not matter that she had finally crawled out of that stinking pit of a city and found her way back home; she had only to close her eyes and see Cersei Lannister’s cool mask of a face, her green eyes glittering like a snake’s. She could picture Joffrey’s arrogant little smirk, the cruel cast to his mouth more pronounced than ever. And looming over them all was Lord Tywin, as cold and stern as ever, who treated his family like a general moving regiments across a map.

She forced herself to take a deep, steadying breath.

Joffrey was dead. If the reports were to be believed, Lord Tywin was dead, too – and at the hands of his own son, no less. Everyone knew about the Kingslayer’s missing hand and no-one knew the whereabouts of her first husband; neither of them were a serious threat. Only Cersei still had the power to hurt her, and her reach was not quite as long as she thought it was.

Sansa squared her shoulders.

She would not let Cersei hurt her again.

Ser Harys stepped forward, concern cloying his every word. Wylla watched him, her large eyes darting between them both.

“Lady Stark? Are you quite well?”

She straightened up and looked him in the eye with such force that he actually flinched. Wylla shrank backwards too, still clinging to his arm and almost slipping on the ice in the process.

“I must see the king at once.”

* * *

 

 

Stannis had commandeered her father’s solar for a war room. It was where he spent most of his time. Less than two hours after he had decapitated the Boltons, he had the servants dragging an enormous table into the centre of the room, with chairs for all his generals. Now, he sat at its head, maps spread all across its surface. Sansa stood at the other end of the room, her heart still pounding and snowflakes melting in her hair.

“Lady Stark,” Stannis muttered, “you aren’t supposed to –”

“The Lannisters are coming.”

The room fell utterly silent. Stannis froze in his chair.

One of his generals stepped forward; an elderly man with a long moustache who was a part of House Florent. He smiled at her kindly, but a dismissive look was already creeping into his eyes.

“Now, Lady Stark,” he said, reaching for her hand, “you mustn’t listen to rumours. The king is a very busy man, he needs to –”

She cut across him. “This is no rumour, Ser. I have had word from my uncle, Brynden Tully. He has been holding Riverrun against the Freys; he would not send word unless it was very serious indeed.”

She crossed the room and handed the scroll to Stannis. Before he read the message, he glanced down at the black wax.

“It has the Blackfish’s seal,” he muttered, and began to read. His face grew dark and his generals exchanged glances.

When he looked up, his mouth was set into a thin, white line.

“When did you get this?”

“I came straight here, Your Grace,” she said, “Ser Harys was with me when I was given the message.”

Stannis stood up; his generals scattered out of his way. He stalked around the table, glaring at the maps from every angle.

“The Lannisters were already at Riverrun, besieging the castle with the Freys,” he muttered, as if thinking aloud, “and Daven Lannister marches north with six thousand men.”

“That’s almost twice our numbers, my lord,” said the elderly general. A muscle in Stannis’s jaw twitched.

“I know how many men I command, Florent.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Stannis did not appear to even notice the apology. His eyes were darting all over the maps.

“We can’t let them advance,” he muttered, “too far north and they could burn their way to Winterfell. Perhaps the Twins…”

He looked up, his blue eyes burning with purpose.

“Thank you, Lady Stark. You may go.”

Sansa hesitated. Stannis turned back to his maps. Another of his generals leaned forward, pointing at a spot on the map. Sansa recognised him as Lord Orys Kennington; a thin man with a smattering of tawny-blond hair and a nose that had been broken in many places.

“We should stay off the kingsroad, Your Grace, and retain the element of surprise. Here, we could sail down the waterways in the Neck…”

Sansa seized her chance.

“Forgive the interruption, my lord, but I do not think that would be wise.”

Every single man in the room turned to look at her. Most of them had their mouths hanging wide open, and Stannis himself looked as though she had just said something deeply insulting about his mother. When he spoke, his voice was loaded with contempt.

“And what do you know of warfare, Lady Stark?”

She blushed, and took a hesitant step forward.

“I am a young girl, Your Grace, and know little of the ways of war. But I know the North well; my father made sure of that.”

Stannis raised his eyebrows at her, and she continued.

“House Reed rules the Neck; they have been loyal to my father since Robert’s Rebellion. It is treacherous terrain, Your Grace. It is a swamp that spreads from coast to coast, with no solid ground nor clear waterways to pass through it. Only the crannogmen know the marshes well enough to veer off the kingsroad; all others who attempt it are lost forever.”

Lord Kennington snorted. “Nonsense! These are the words of children, told to them by nurses who would see them stick to the path. What evidence is there that proves these are anything more than tales?”

She met Lord Kennington’s gaze with ice in her eyes. “When I first went down to King’s Landing, three squires strayed from the causeway through the Neck. They had shot down a bird, I believe, and sought to retrieve it. It was only a little way off the path, but neither of them were ever seen again.”

Lord Kennington fell silent. Stannis looked at her, thoughtfully.

“Send a raven to your bannermen, Lady Stark,” he said eventually, “and have them escort my men through the Neck.”

“And right into the mouth of the Twins, Your Grace?”

The corner of Stannis’s mouth twitched. His hand clenched on the table-top.

“What would _you_ have me do, Lady Stark?” he asked.

She hesitated for a moment, thinking.

“If Your Grace wishes me to send word to Greywater Watch and arrange escorts for you, I will gladly do so,” she began, “but it is a dangerous journey. I have no doubt that you could best the Lannisters in open combat, but they would be within easy reach of reinforcements from the Twins, or from the rest of their forces besieging Riverrun.”

“I know all this!” Stannis snapped. “You have summed up the problem very nicely, Lady Stark, but where is your solution?”

She took a deep breath.

“If Your Grace should wish it,” she began, “I could send word to Greywater Watch and have them destroy the causeway; the kingsroad would flood without it. The Lannisters would be forced to find another route through the marshes, and if the swamp does not kill them, the crannogmen will.”

“And how would we get past the Twins?”

She hesitated. Stannis’s mouth was already twisted, his eyes full of something like contempt. She had offended him by speaking out of turn, that much was clear. Telling him the rest of her plan would make him far too suspicious of her; she did not want him to suspect what she was capable of.

But that did not mean she would be silent.

She looked down at the floor, feigning embarrassment.

“I do not know, Your Grace,” she mumbled, “I know little of war. But I will pray for your success.”

“Thank you for your information, Lady Stark,” Stannis grumbled.

He turned back to his maps. His generals smirked at each other. She headed towards the door, pacing herself carefully. When a few moments had passed, and she was almost at the door, she turned back to them.

“Your Grace, when you defeat the Lannisters, would you be so good as to salvage their banners? Good cloth will be hard to come by when winter comes, and the people of Winterfell will need much of it as the nights draw in.”

He nodded dismissively. Just before she left, she saw him freeze out of the corner of her eye, as though an idea had just come to him. His generals leaned forward too, all their faces eager and alight.

“Your Grace,” one of them began, “what if we used the Lannister banners to get past–”

Sansa shut the door behind her, biting back a smirk.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your feedback, guys - I really appreciate it! Hope you enjoy the latest chapter!

As she suspected, Stannis eventually ordered her to send a message to House Reed. He had already sent a small garrison down to Moat Cailin, and the rest of his army would march south before the month was out. Before they arrived, the crannogmen were to destroy the northernmost end of the causeway, and prepare guides to lead the Baratheon forces through the Neck.

“And make sure to tell him to save the Lannister banners,” he grumbled, “and any other red cloth they wear.”

Sansa beamed at him. “Of course, Your Grace. Shall I ask Lord Reed to send them on to Winterfell?”

He looked up at her, sharply.

“No.”

Her face fell. One of the generals smiled at her, in a way that was just short of patronising.

“I’m afraid our men shall need them for the coming winter, my lady. Your concern for your smallfolk is admirable, but you are well-provided here.”

She smiled at him, curtsied, and left the war room. She dispatched a rider to Greywater Watch – the castle moved, there was no point sending ravens – and headed down to the storage rooms. As she walked past the armoury, she saw Theon out of the corner of her eye, cowering by the North Gate. He looked up at her as she passed, his eyes wide with something she could not place.

She ignored him. She felt as if she was glowing from her own triumph.

Stannis Baratheon would march south soon. The crannogmen would lure the Lannisters into the Neck and wait for them to entangle themselves in the marshes. The crannogmen and the Baratheon forces would pick them off, one by one, until every Lannister man was dead. Then, they would take up the Lannister banners, don their cloaks, and head for the Twins. When the Freys saw the Lannister banners, they would allow the Baratheon men into their stronghold and over the Trident. What would happen after that, she did not know. Perhaps the Baratheon men would pass through undetected; perhaps they would be forced to slaughter every Frey they found. It did not matter: whether Stannis won his battle or not, once he had passed through the Neck he would not be her problem any more.

All she would have to do would be to remain unmarried and she would be free of his influence forever.

As she walked, she felt a little stab of pain in her lower abdomen. She winced, and tried to ignore it. It was a little memento from her late husband; Ramsay had never been one to restrain himself. The maester had said she would heal, as long as she was left undisturbed.

She had made sure that Wylla had been with her when the maester delivered that particular piece of news. He had also told her that if she were to marry again, she and her new husband would both have to be extremely careful, or there could be a serious risk to her health.

If there was one piece of news she actually wanted Stannis Baratheon to hear, it was that. Stannis was determined to marry her off, but even he knew she would be no good to him dead.

* * *

 

 

Sansa saw very little of Stannis Baratheon’s queen. She had installed herself in the lord’s rooms and spent most of the day shut away there. From what Sansa had heard of her, it was no great loss. The little princess was shut away with her too, and from time to time the red priestess came to visit them. They had expressed no interest in her, and Sansa had very little interest in them.

But when a summons came from Queen Selyse, Sansa had no choice but to answer it.

Sansa climbed the stairs to the lord’s chamber. Queen Selyse had commandeered a small parlour her mother had used to make all their clothes, and when she saw the Baratheon knights standing outside the door she felt a small pang of regret.

She pulled herself together and knocked at the door.

“Come in.”

One of the Baratheon knights opened the door for her, and Sansa entered the little parlour. Queen Selyse was sitting in a chair by the fire, swathed in furs and poring over a small book bound in red leather. The Princess Shireen sat by the fire, drawing patterns in the cinders with the poker. The firelight glinted off the greyscale on her cheek, and Sansa forced herself not to stare at it. Wylla scuttled in behind her, and settled in the ashes to play with the princess.

She curtsied to the Queen and her daughter. “Your Grace, Princess.”

Selyse shut the book with a snap. She was a tall, gaunt woman, who seemed to be made entirely of spiky limbs and harsh corners. Her face seemed curiously taut when she smiled at her; evidently her smiles did not come naturally.

“Lady Stark,” said Selyse, “so good of you to come. Do sit down.”

Sansa sat, perching herself on the edge of a hard wooden chair.

“How are you liking Winterfell, Your Grace?”

Selyse ignored her. She spoke very slowly, as if she were not sure that Sansa could understand her.

“Now, Lady Stark, your king has charged me with finding you a husband.”

Sansa blinked at her, taken aback. Wylla glanced up at her, her face blank, and Sansa’s mind began to whir.

“So soon, Your Grace?” she asked, “I understood that I would be subject to a period of confinement before I married again. The maester said…”

Selyse let out a dismissive snort and waved Sansa’s words away. “Maesters! Crooks and charlatans, every last one of them. Whether you are with child or not, Lady Stark, you must marry again. Your king needs the North.”

Sansa’s mouth had gone very dry, but she fought to keep smiling. “Your Grace, the king shall have the North’s support even if I live to be an old maid.”

“That will never do. No, you must marry. The king has many worthy knights and generals in his retinue, one of them would make an excellent match for you.”

Sansa licked her lips nervously, her mind racing.

“I do not doubt the worth of the king’s men,” she said, still smiling, “I have seen it myself when they liberated Winterfell from the Boltons. But I should hate to deprive the king of a loyal servant when he would need them most. The march south will be long and difficult, and I would not see the king’s army shrink just for my sake.”

Queen Selyse’s lip curled. “One would think you did not want to be married.”

She could not help it; colour flooded Sansa’s cheeks. She looked away, quickly, but the Queen had already seen it.

“Well? Is this true?”

Sansa hesitated, thinking fast.

“I am very grateful for the king’s kind gift,” she mumbled, keeping her eyes downcast, “but…Your Grace, my last marriage was not a happy one. The Bolton boy left me with many scars, some of which have not yet healed.”

She looked up then, calling tears to her eyes.

“If I am to marry again, I should like to be…pure, and clean. I could not bear it if I brought his ghost into my marriage.”

Selyse was unmoved. Her stern, harsh face was set into deep lines of disapproval. The Princess Shireen, on the other hand, was staring up at Sansa, her wide eyes glistening with tears.

“Don’t talk such nonsense, child. Ghosts and shades…this is the talk of chamber-maids and pot-washers. You must marry again, and soon.”

“Of course, Your Grace. If it please you, might I include Lady Walda in the plans for my wedding? It would do her good to have a task to set her mind to.”

“Lady Walda?” said the Queen, looking thoughtful, “Roose Bolton’s widow?”

“Yes,” Sansa replied, “in truth, I should like to send her back home to the Twins, but I would not like to disrupt King Stannis’s plans.”

“Lady Walda,” Selyse mused, “I had forgotten about her…a Frey by birth, isn’t she? And with child, from what Lady Melisandre tells me.”

The Queen’s disapproval with Walda’s pregnancy was palpable. Sansa seized her chance.

“When I last spoke with her, she told me she had considered sending the child to the Wall, or to the maesters in Oldtown, once it was old enough. In truth, Your Grace, I think she should prefer to be sent back to Lord Frey so that he might find another match for her.”

The Queen let out a derisive snort. “Don’t be so foolish. We could never send her back to the Twins as long as Lord Walder lives…”

Realisation dawned on the Queen’s face. Sansa felt her heart pounding, and kept her own face calm and expressionless.

“You may leave,” Selyse commanded, waving her hand dismissively, “and send a servant to the king’s chambers. I wish to speak with my husband.”

Sansa got to her feet and curtsied. “Of course, Your Grace.”

She left the room, Wylla trailing at her heels. She did exactly as she was asked and sent a messenger down to the war room; then, she told Wylla she was going for a lie down. As always, Wylla did not leave her: while Sansa climbed under the furs on her bed she settled into a chair by the fire with a pile of mending on her lap.

Sansa pulled the covers over her head, and allowed the mask to slip away from her face.

Queen Selyse would be a problem. Even more uncompromising and single-minded than Stannis, she showed no signs that she would ever warm to Sansa’s particular brand of charm. She would never be able to appeal to Selyse’s sense of sympathy, compassion, or maternal instincts, simply because she did not appear to have any.

She had been very lucky that Selyse had taken the bait. Sansa had no idea if Lady Walda actually wanted to marry again – she had barely spoken to her since Stannis’s arrival – but that was a risk Sansa was willing to take. Arranging a match for Lady Walda just might distract Selyse from Sansa’s own impending marriage, particularly since Stannis would need to secure strongholds in the Riverlands on his march south. Of course, in order to use the castle as a truly secure fortress, he would have to kill every Frey he found, but that did not trouble her. She was not sure if Stannis’s deception would last long enough for his men to make it across the Twins undetected, but this would only give him further incentive to cross swords with the Freys. If he could make sure that Lady Walda was the only surviving Frey – and then marry her off to one of his Stormlander knights – then the Twins were as good as secured.

She only hoped that Stannis would not decide to secure the North as well.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks for all the feedback - hope you enjoy the chapter!

Theon was following her.

She had first noticed him limping after her a few days ago, but she had thought nothing of it; the last of the wagons from the Dreadfort arrived soon after, and Theon took to wailing by the gate. She had passed on, with Wylla and a small retinue of suitors bobbing at her heels, and went to inspect the stonemasons’ work. Soon, her mind was filled with thoughts of sealing up the passageway, and Theon was forgotten.

Now, wherever she turned he seemed to be lingering there. When she walked on the battlements and spoke to her bannermen, she saw him keeping pace with her in the courtyard. When she held court and listened to her smallfolk, she could sometimes see him peeping through the windows of the Great Hall, or slouching in the doorway. Once, when she was visiting the kitchens, the cook caught him loitering by the pantry, staring at her, and had chased him away with an old broom.

Sansa did not like it. She was not sure if Theon had something he wanted to tell her, or actually meant to harm her, but either way it did not look as if he would get close enough to carry out his plans. Still, she was not going to take any chances.

Half the smallfolk in Winter Town were asking her for work, so she gave it to them. Most were simply given manual labour in exchange for goods or coin, but before she assigned them their roles, she made sure to speak with them a while, and ask after their families.

If someone related to Winterfell’s many cooks came before her, she would deliberate for a while, smile, and make them one of her food tasters. Most were glad of it: food taster was an easy job which allowed them to stay with their families, and came with better lodgings than those in Winter Town and easy access to the castle kitchens. The cooks did not seem to mind, either: with winter coming, their families would be much safer behind the walls of Winterfell.

It raised a few eyebrows among Stannis’s war council, however. Sansa had made a point of making sure that the castle knew she was offering work to the families of her servants. But despite how much she smiled, and spoke at length about how families would need to stay together once winter came, some of Stannis’s generals began to watch her more closely.

She may have discouraged any attempts to poison her, but she had not discouraged any attempts to marry her off.

As discreetly as she could, she summoned the old serving woman she had met when she arrived as Ramsay’s intended. She had told her she had friends in the North – and so, while Wylla watched, Sansa smiled as sweetly as she could and asked the old woman to bring them to the castle, so that she might thank them for their loyalty.

An ally who was not reporting back to Stannis Baratheon would be very useful indeed.

* * *

 

 

Stannis had not been pleased when he had discovered that Sansa had invited some mystery Northern knight into the castle. He had summoned her to the lord’s chambers and spent almost a full quarter of an hour yelling at her. He ranted about how ungrateful she was, he had raved about the danger she could be putting his soldiers in, and he had said in no uncertain terms that she was disrespecting his authority as a king and as the man who had saved her from the Boltons.

Sansa had absolutely no idea how Wylla had managed to get this information to him so quickly – the girl was clearly much more cunning than she had first thought – but she was not surprised that he was so angry. She supposed that he thought she was trying to make a marriage alliance for herself, rather than letting him ship her south with one of his Stormlanders.

She allowed her eyes to fill with tears.

“I meant no disrespect, Your Grace,” she said, her voice trembling, “I only wished to thank someone who offered to help me when I thought myself alone and friendless.”

Stannis snorted. “Aye – thank him and his army.”

“No, Your Grace! I would never –”

“Half the lords in the North are already beating a path to Winterfell, Lady Stark; the rest are already here. Are you crafting your own army?”

She licked her lips, nervously. “They are coming to pledge their allegiance to you, Your Grace.”

“No, they’re not,” he muttered, “they aren’t coming here for me, they’re coming here for you.”

Stannis glared down at her, his blue eyes burning.

“What’re you planning?”

Her heart was pounding. “Nothing, Your Grace! They…they are coming to pledge their fealty, as they did for my father when he became Lord of Winterfell…”

“As they did for your brother, when he declared himself King in the North?”

“Your Grace, I _am_ loyal…”

“You’ve sworn me no oath!”

“My actions speak for themselves! I have fed and sheltered your men, I have given you my father’s chambers, I came running straight to your war council when I received news about the Lannisters! I let your army into this castle, and I could have been flayed alive if I was discovered! Your Grace, I am loyal to you – you must see that!”

Stannis fell silent, glowering out of the window, his fists still clenched. Sansa let a few tears roll down her cheeks.

“Why’d you send for him in secret? Why didn’t you put out a proclamation?”

She hesitated for a moment, thinking fast and sniffing loudly.

“Your Grace, I have no way to contact this person. I do not even know their name! For all I know, they may well be a simple farmer, and I have no wish to humiliate them in front of all these grand lords and knights. And besides, I may only be a young girl, but I do know that if I were to put out a proclamation promising a reward for this mystery person, half the kingdom would find their way to my door.”

Stannis unclenched his fists a little. Sansa said nothing. Wylla was still watching her, so she fumbled for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

“You won’t meet with this person alone.”

“Of course not, Your Grace –”

“Wylla will be there. And Ser Davos. You’ll meet with the Lady Melisandre tonight, and she will tell you what my wife has arranged for your wedding.”

“My…my wedding?”

“I leave Winterfell in two weeks; you’ll marry the day after I leave. That will be all.”

He dismissed her with a wave of his hand and Sansa left, her mind reeling.

* * *

 

 

Sansa had never seen the Lady Melisandre around Winterfell. At first, she had thought that the Red Priestess spent all her time with the Queen, but when Selyse had summoned her to her chambers she was nowhere to be seen. Everyone seemed to know about her, and sometimes Sansa would catch a glimpse of one of her bonfires in the distance, but wherever she looked Sansa could not find her.

Sansa did not like it. The thought that the Lady Melisandre already knew Winterfell well enough to hide from Northerners who had lived there for most of their lives was a very disconcerting one indeed.

Fortunately, she was not the only one who seemed to dislike the Red Priestess. The smallfolk of Winter Town scuttled out of her path, the castle servants shrank away from her. She held nightfires every evening at the edge of the wolfswood, which were always attended by the Queen and a small retinue of Stannis’s knights. Ser Harys Cobb had tried to get her to come along more than once, but Sansa had always made sure that she was far too busy to attend.

Ser Davos Seaworth – Stannis’s Hand – was clearly not fond of the Red Priestess either. He had caught up with her on her way to the Queen’s chambers, intending to ask her if she could spare any Northern lords, but when she had told him where she was going the conversation ended.

“I can see I’ve disturbed you, milady. My apologies.”

He was backing away already. Sansa felt a little flurry of panic, although she could not say why.

“You’d be welcome to come too, Ser Davos. I should like some company.”

“No, no, I…I wouldn’t want to barge in…”

They came to a halt outside the Lady Melisandre’s chambers. The guards opened the door. The smell of woodsmoke came drifting out into the corridor, and in the gloom, Sansa thought she caught a glimpse of writhing shadows.

She clutched at Ser Davos’s arm, ignoring Wylla’s watchful eyes. “Wait for me here, Ser, and we can discuss your knights when I return. I…I do not think I will be long.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded, glancing into the darkened room.

Sansa let go of his arm, trying to ignore the squirming fear in her belly. Then, she squared her shoulders and went inside.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the latest chapter! Feel free to leave your opinion, I love getting feedback! Enjoy!

The room stank of woodsmoke. It hung in the air, scratching at Sansa’s throat and making her eyes water. Through the haze of smoke and tears, she could see a flickering fire in the middle of the room. The flames cast strange lights off the metal brazier that contained them, and stranger shadows in the darkness. Wylla followed her inside, and even though she did not trust the little girl, Sansa was half-tempted to reach for her hand.

“Lady Stark,” said a low voice.

Sansa let out a little cry of surprise. A woman with a pale face and a glittering ruby at her throat stepped out of the shadows.

“Lady Melisandre,” she said, dropping a curtsey, “you startled me.”

Melisandre smiled. “Your companion will not be needed. You may go, child.”

Wylla bobbed a curtsey and ran from the room. She shut the door behind her and Sansa was filled with a burning desire to run after her.

Melisandre held out a hand to her, still smiling. “Come here, my lady.”

Her heart pounding, Sansa walked around the brazier. She scuffed her feet on the stones as she went, her hands brushing far too close to the flames when she tried to keep herself from falling. Melisandre did nothing to help her; she simply watched her progress, her expression unmovable.

“Do I frighten you?” she asked.

Sansa considered her. Close to, Melisandre was a very beautiful woman. Her long, red hair gleamed in the firelight, her pale skin seemed to glow. She was dressed all in red and the fire cast a golden-yellow light across her face, but there was something about her that seemed incredibly cold.

“No,” she lied.

Melisandre’s smile widened. “We are off to a bad start, my lady. You should not lie to me; I can always tell.”

Sansa blushed.

Melisandre stared down at her with a critical eye. She cupped Sansa’s chin and turned her face this way and that, her fingers curiously cold.

“You certainly are a great beauty,” Melisandre mused, “the rumours are quite true. But you are so young, and such a lot depends on you. Tell me, my lady, do you wish to serve your king?”

“Of course.”

“And what is the best way that a lady _can_ serve her king?”

Sansa licked her lips. “I rather think that depends on the lady.”

Melisandre let out a low, quiet laugh. “Indeed it does. How will you serve your king, Lady Stark?”

“I shall hold the North for him, give his lords my hospitality, and arrange guides through the Neck for his soldiers.”

“Is that all you shall do?”

“I…I don’t understand…”

Something hardened in Melisandre’s lovely face. “You claim to be loyal to your king, yet you continue to worship your false gods, and you delay his attempts to find you a husband. Are you not grateful for all His Grace has done for you, Lady Stark?”

Sansa’s heart was rattling against her ribs. “Of course I am grateful, my lady! I would never dream of –”

“Why do you worship the false gods? Why have you not burned down the godswood in the name of the Lord of Light?”

Sansa’s mind was racing. “They were my father’s gods. They are all I have left of him.”

Melisandre fell silent. She seemed to be considering her.

“And why do you not rejoice at the prospect of your king finding you a new husband? A royal match is something most girls would be grateful for.”

Now, she was on firmer ground. Sansa looked the priestess right in the eye.

“Forgive me for saying so, my lady, but my last husband did not give me cause to rejoice. Marriage has brought me nothing but pain and grief, and I am in no hurry to return to it.”

Melisandre stared into the flames.

“The Lord of Light has shown me some of your late husband’s deeds,” she muttered, “I understand your fears. But it is your duty to marry, Lady Stark; your king has commanded it.”

Sansa cleared her throat, her face burning. “My…my previous marriage has left me with some…some lingering pain. The maester says it will heal, in time, if I am…careful.”

“Is this so?”

Melisandre reached out and placed her hand on Sansa’s abdomen. Pain flared up at once and Sansa screwed up her eyes, letting out a hiss from between clenched teeth.

“You have suffered much, my lady,” Melisandre said, “but I cannot change the king’s plans for you. The Queen tells me you have taken a liking to Ser Harys Cobb; I will speak with him, and see that he treats you gently.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open. It felt as if the floor was falling away beneath her feet.

“I won’t do it,” she blurted, “I won’t marry him. I can’t!”

Melisandre’s face hardened. She pressed down a little harder and pain shot through Sansa’s stomach. Tears sprang to her eyes and she fought to bite back a whimper.

“You have lost two children, Lady Stark,” she whispered, her voice as slippery as silk, “you told the king you only lost one.”

Sansa clenched her teeth and said nothing. Melisandre took her hand away, and even that little movement was enough to send another spasm of pain through her belly.

“The Lord of Light has shown me your deeds, child,” Melisandre hissed, “I know what you have done. But I will not be unkind to you; I know how you suffered. I shall keep your secret – if you do as you are bid, and remain loyal to the one true king.”

Tears were streaming down Sansa’s face. She was gasping for air, but all she seemed to be able to breathe was smoke.

“Ser Harys will make a good match for you. He is loyal to your king, he is strong, he is handsome. Perhaps he could even make a true believer of you, after you have given him children.”

“Giving him children could kill me!”

Melisandre said nothing.

The room was reeling. Sansa clutched at the air, desperate for support. Her fingers found the brazier and she yanked her hand away, the palm of her hand stinging from the burn.

“Is…is he kind?”

Melisandre stared down at her, her face utterly impassive.

“If he has reason to be. You may leave, Lady Stark.”

Sansa lurched towards the door. Her foot caught the brazier as she left, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Melisandre stoop to catch it. As she righted the hot metal brazier, she did not even flinch.

Sansa hauled the door open. The cold air hit her like a slap in the face, stinging her damp cheeks and burned hand. The stone corridor seemed unreasonably bright after Melisandre’s dark, smoky chambers, and the air she breathed was so cold and clear it sliced right through her.

She stumbled forward, her abdomen still throbbing, her vision still whirling, and someone stepped forward and held her upright. She could hear people muttering from the end of the corridor, but she could not see them properly: the room was still spinning.

A man spoke from somewhere way over her head. He had a very gruff voice with a thick Northern accent, but she could not focus on his face.

“What happened, Lady Sansa?”

It was as if the past had opened up in front of her. All she could see was a man with dark hair dressed in heavy furs, but she was sure she knew that voice. At once, all her fears were stripped away from her, and hope began to swell inside her chest like the rising sun.

“F-Father?”

There was a very long silence. She stared up at the man, wishing the room would stop spinning.

“No, Lady Stark,” said the man, very gently, “it’s Ser Davos.”

Something snapped.

She burst into tears. Her knees sagged as she sank to the floor, wailing like a child, and Ser Davos lurched forward as he attempted to hold her upright. She heard muttering all around her, but she did not care if they saw her tears.

Ser Davos crouched down beside her and put an arm around her shoulders, as if she were no more than a girl of seven. The last person who had held her like that had been her father, when he was still King Robert’s Hand. It was almost as if he was with her now, even though Ser Davos looked and smelt all wrong, and he was patting her on the back with his shortened hand.

He scrambled in his pocket and pulled out an extremely grubby handkerchief. She took it, her vision finally steadying, and took several deep breaths.

“I’m so sorry, Ser Davos,” she mumbled, hiccupping slightly, “the smoke made me so dizzy, I thought you were…”

Ser Davos gave her an extremely uncomfortable smile and patted her shoulder with his funny shortened hand. “It’s all right, milady. Let’s get you to the maester.”

“No, no, I’m quite well…”

He helped her to her feet. As she straightened up she felt another stab of pain in her abdomen and clutched at it, gasping.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, no…”

She saw Ser Davos shoot a dirty look at Melisandre’s closed door. Now that her vision had returned to her, she could see a small crowd of lords and servants – some from the North, some from Stannis’s army – at the far end of the corridor. They kept glancing at the door and muttering to themselves, fear and outrage all over their faces.

She could use that.

“You’ve burned your hand, milady,” said Ser Davos. His words seemed to ring through the corridor as the crowd fell quiet.

“Have I? Oh, yes.”

She dabbed at her eyes, wincing a little as her burned skin moved. She flexed her fingers, examining it, and gritted her teeth together.

“You ought to see to that burn before it turns bad. Come along, I’ll take you to the maester.”

She hiccupped again and gave Ser Davos a brave smile. “I’m sure all it needs is a little snow, Ser Davos. I…I should much rather go down to the crypts, and pay my respects to my father.”

Ser Davos nodded, and led her down the corridor. The lords bowed their heads as she passed, muttering condolences, but Sansa pretended not to see. Wylla followed along behind them, her dark eyes flickering all around the corridor.

Sooner than she had thought, they came to the entrance to the crypts. A Northern girl had pressed a handful of blue winter roses into Sansa’s hands as they had passed through the courtyard. A few of the lords had called out to her as she passed, asking her to remember them to her father. She smiled at them all, making sure they saw her dabbing at her eyes.

Ser Davos opened the gates for her.

“Thank you,” she said, handing him back his handkerchief, “I’m so sorry to have put you to all this trouble.”

“Don’t you worry about it, milady.”

She stepped through the gates and headed down to the crypts. Wylla made to follow her, but Ser Davos held her back.

Sansa kept walking, careful not to look over her shoulder.

“His Grace said I’m to keep watch on Lady Stark…” Wylla began.

“For gods’ sake, leave her be!” Ser Davos snapped, “give the poor girl some peace! What’s she going to do in an empty crypt?”

Sansa sniffed loudly, and heard the gates close behind her. She kept walking, and soon, she was far underground.

Her footsteps echoed all around the crypt as she passed the statues of her long-dead ancestors. She had not yet had time to put up a statue to her father – not while Stannis’s men swarmed all over her castle and tried to lay claim to anything that stood still long enough – but she had picked out a place for him. He would have understood, she was sure; he had always been a practical man.

It was a good place. Her father’s patch stood a little way down from that of her grandsire, Lord Rickard, and his children, Brandon and Lyanna. There was enough space beside it to include statues of her mother and brothers, and once their remains had all been returned she would build them all.

She set down the blue roses on the empty patch, wiping her eyes. It was so good to be away from Wylla’s silent, watchful gaze…

She heard footsteps shuffling through the darkness and her shoulders sagged. Her solitude had lasted all of five minutes; evidently, Ser Davos could not keep the little girl from her task.

“Milady,” came a man’s voice.

She whirled around, and came face to face with Theon Greyjoy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the latest chapter! Thanks for all the feedback - feel free to leave more, I really appreciate it! :)

Theon looked nothing like the boy she remembered.

It was the first time she had been close enough to properly see his face since Stannis arrived, and the second she saw him fear curdled in the pit of her stomach. He was covered in a layer of grime so thick she could almost smell it. Some of his teeth – and fingers – were missing, but that had been Ramsay’s work. Now, his face was so hollow that she could see every bone in his face, so sharply that it seemed as if they would push through the skin. But it was his eyes that truly scared her: they were wide, bloodshot, and filled with fear.

She pulled herself upright.

“Theon,” she murmured.

A rat scuttled through the darkness and he whirled around, terrified.

“What are you doing down here?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

He ignored her, still staring after the rat.

“Theon?”

“Reek,” he croaked.

She sighed. “Your true name is Theon. The Boltons are dead; you are free to use it again.”

Theon shook his head. “He’ll hear it. He always does.”

She ran a hand through her hair, thinking hard.

“Do you remember your brothers?” she asked, “your cousins, and your home on Pyke? You used to tell Robb and me about them, when we were younger. You said that on the Iron Islands, the air tasted like salt everywhere you went, and you ate fresh fish every night. When you thought I wasn’t listening, you told Robb that your brothers and cousins used to do the finger dance with their axes, and one day, you would show him how. Will you show me, instead?”

A little of the panic left Theon’s face. “Finger dancing isn’t a game for a proper lady,” he muttered, “it took half a hand off Cousin Urri. The maester tried to sew it back on, and he died. He was a greenlander; he didn’t know.”

She smiled. “Those are Theon’s memories, not Reek’s,” she said, very gently.

He shook his head. “Milady, please, he’ll hear you…”

“Theon, Ramsay is dead. He hears nothing, now.”

Theon shook his head again, more frantically this time. “Was a trick,” he mumbled, “it’s always a trick! Like with the boys, those poor boys…it’s a test, he’s testing his Reek…”

“I saw Stannis take their heads myself. It’s no trick. You are safe now. There are no more Boltons.”

He shook his head. “Fat Walda gets fatter. You will, too. He told me. He told his Reek everything.”

Sansa glanced around the crypt. She was within reach of the iron longsword at the foot of her grandsire’s statue. She could snatch it up quickly, if she needed to.

“Theon –”

“He’ll _hear_ you!”

“I am not with child. You would have seen it by now, if I was. You’re safe, believe me.”

He shook his head, staring down at her stomach. “It’s a trick. It’s always a trick.”

She sighed. “It’s no trick, Theon.”

He inched away from her, back into the shadows. She turned and left him there, the gruesome story about the maester’s mistake still ringing in her ears.

* * *

 

 

All of Winterfell seemed to have heard about Sansa’s breakdown after she left the Red Priestess’s rooms. Everywhere she went, people whispered in her wake. Most of them shot her pitying glances, but she could hear the muttering as she passed.

Sansa was not sure how to feel about that.

On the one hand, it seemed to have turned the tide against Stannis. The Lady Melisandre’s nightfires had fewer attendants than ever before, and once, Sansa caught a glimpse of her walking across the courtyard and had seen half the castle glaring after her. More people were flocking to the godswood than ever before, and both the Northern lords and a few Stormlander knights were beginning to turn against the Baratheon forces.

On the other hand, it seemed to have cemented their opinion of her as a weak, delicate little girl. Sometimes this worked to her advantage – Stannis’s war council no longer looked at her with suspicious eyes when she passed them by – but most of the time, it did not. More and more often, tasks were lifted right out of her hands by some well-wisher with a patronising smile on their face, and once or twice she had overheard the Northern lords muttering about her spending all that time in the South. They were beginning to take their problems to Ser Harys, now that he had been officially announced as her intended.

Sansa did not like that at all.

She did not like _him_ all that much, either.

He was walking alongside her now, as she inspected the glasshouses. They had been repaired, and the springs under Winterfell made them so warm that she had taken off her fur-lined cloak. Ser Harys had taken it at once and folded it over his arm, smiling at her in a way she did not like. The one good thing about his presence at her side was that he had seen fit to dismiss Wylla, who was waiting outside the glasshouses with tears in her large eyes.

As they passed through rows of large marrows, he plucked a flower from a nearby plant and gave it to her. It was a blowsy, pale yellow thing that would have yielded a good-sized marrow if he had only let it be. She smiled, all the same.

“It pales in comparison to your beauty,” he said, tucking it behind her ear, “I cannot wait until we are married.”

“You’re too kind, Ser Harys. Have…have you spoken to the maester?”

He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, smirking to himself, and led her along the path.

“No – charlatans, every last man of them. Tell me, sweetling, why did you run from the Lady Melisandre?”

Sansa stiffened. Ser Harys was trying to sound as if the question did not matter to him, but he was failing. She could see him watching her out of the corner of his eye.

“I should prefer not to discuss that, my lord. Let us speak of happier things.”

He scowled. “We are to be married in a little over a week. We ought not to have secrets from one another.”

She remembered how Ramsay had told her something very similar, not too long ago. She shivered, and decided on her strategy.

“You’re right, of course. In truth, I was frightened.”

He laughed. “My lady, how on Earth could you be frightened? You know Melisandre is doing the Lord’s work, she means you no harm.”

Sansa felt a little twinge in her abdomen, and gritted her teeth.

“I am sure she does not, but…well, it was the first time I had seen her flames. I saw so many strange things – shadows, where there should not have been shadows – and for a moment, I thought that something terrible was going to happen.”

A little of the colour drained out of Ser Harys’s face. “You did?”

“Yes,” she said, making sure to keep her voice humble, “of course, I know nothing of such things, but it felt…well, it felt as if I was being warned about some great catastrophe.”

Ser Harys fell silent. Sansa had to fight to keep herself from smiling. If he believed her, it would make her life so much easier.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” she said, blushing a little, “I’m sure it’s nothing, but I should not like to cause a panic with winter drawing so close.”

“Of course,” he said, pulling her a little closer, “I’m glad to see you’re starting to see the way of the one true God. Soon, we can dispense with those silly trees altogether, and have some more wood for our hearths.”

Sansa felt a flash of anger. “I don’t think that would be wise, Ser Harys. We Northerners are a traditional people; doing away with the godswood so quickly would not be a welcome move.”

He scowled at her again. “But its very presence will lead people into blasphemy!”

“Nevertheless, it will win us no allies if we tear it down.”

“We do not _need_ allies. I am Stannis Baratheon’s Warden of the North, and all the men you call ‘allies’ are nothing but my subjects.”

“You are quite right, but if you tear down their gods, they will not be _loyal_ subjects.”

Ser Harys opened his mouth to reply, already frowning, when a servant came into the glasshouse.

“Lady Stark,” he said, “there’s a knight here to see you. He says you sent for him.”

Sansa beamed. “Show him in, and run and fetch Ser Davos. I will fetch Wylla myself.”

He bowed and left, heading for the main keep. She started after him, but Ser Harys grabbed her arm and held her back. Anger was scrawled all across his face.

“Who’s this knight you’re meeting with?” he snapped, his face slowly going red.

Sansa smiled and attempted to prise his fingers away. “I do not know, but he attempted to help me when I was still a prisoner of the Boltons. I wish to thank him, that is all.”

He glared at her. “I won’t have you running off with some Northern hedge knight! You’re marrying me, d’you hear?”

Her smile faltered. “I only wish to thank him. You know I would not dishonour you by running away, or our king. Besides, Ser Davos will be there to protect me.”

“And so shall I,” he said, wedging her hand into the crook of his arm and dragging her out of the glasshouse.

* * *

 

 

Ser Harys stood behind her chair in the lord’s chamber, seething.

Sansa was waiting to receive her mystery knight, smoothing down her immaculate skirts. Ser Davos and Wylla were there too, standing alongside her future husband on the lord’s dais. Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Ser Davos giving Ser Harys a sidelong look, his disapproval almost palpable in the air.

Ser Harys had all but pitched a fit when he found out that Sansa would be sitting in the lord’s chair, and that he would be expected to stand. He had complained like an overindulged child, and only the presence of a small crowd of curious onlookers had prevented him from actually striking someone.

Sansa wished that Ser Davos would strike him across the face with his shortened hand. She kept her thoughts from showing, and smiled benignly as Ser Harys placed a proprietary hand on her shoulder.

The door opened.

An enormous knight strode into the hall, his armour clanking as he walked. A boy little older than Sansa scuttled in after him, his dark hair falling into his eyes. The knight knelt in the centre of the room, bowing his head the moment he saw her.

“You are welcome here, Ser,” she said, hope swelling in her chest, “there is no need for you to keep your helmet on in these halls.”

The knight hesitated for a moment, and then removed his helmet.

Ser Harys burst out laughing.

Sansa’s mystery knight was unmistakably a woman. She may have been taller than Ser Harys and built like an ox, with short blond hair and a nose that looked as if it had been broken, but there was no mistaking it. She blushed, and Sansa realised that she had seen her before – at an inn, along the road to Winterfell.

She shook off Ser Harys’s hand and got to her feet. His laughter died at once, but she kept her face calm. She climbed down from the dais and stood in front of the knight.

“I know you, my lady,” she said, “I met you on the road to Winterfell, when I was travelling with Lord Baelish. Will you tell me your name?”

“I am Brienne of Tarth, my lady. I was your mother’s sworn shield, and she tasked me with protecting you.”

“My mother is dead, Lady Brienne.”

“I swore a holy oath. I have not forgotten it.”

Sansa smiled. “You may rise, my lady.”

Brienne got to her feet, her armour clanking quietly. She towered over Sansa by well over a foot, but even in full armour and with a sword at her side, there was something like fear in her eyes.

“You have served my mother well, Lady Brienne,” she said, “you have honoured your vow with every breath. Now, I would have you serve me, as _my_ sworn shield, just as you did for my mother before me.”

From the back of the room, Ser Harys sniggered. Sansa ignored him. So did Brienne.

“I would be honoured, Lady Stark.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks so much for the feedback - always nice to hear what you think of my stories :) Enjoy!

Brienne was a loyal knight and a fine swordswoman, but as her wedding day drew ever closer, Sansa began to feel a little bit disappointed.

Brienne practised in the courtyard every day, teaching her squire how to fight and taking on some of the Northern lords; she sent them all scurrying back to the keep, swearing and limping as they went. She seemed to need very little sleep, and had no trouble standing guard while Sansa slept. She was always alert, respectful and vigilant, even if conversation did not come naturally to her. In truth, this seemed to work in her favour, as she fitted in well with some of the gruff mannerisms of the Northern lords.

But Sansa could not deny that she had been hoping for an alternative to Ser Harys. As her wedding day drew ever closer, and Stannis’s men prepared for their long march south, she wished more than ever that she did not have to marry Stannis’s chosen knight. She would have to marry eventually; on that front she had no choice. She was the last Stark left, if she did not marry and have children the line would die with her – but she was under the distinct impression that she might die a lot sooner than she would like if she married Ser Harys. She did not think that he would be quite so brazen as to have her killed – even with his phenomenal lack of foresight, he surely knew how much that would hurt his position – but he was refusing to speak to the maester. The poor man was on the verge of chasing Ser Harys around the castle, desperately trying to tell him about the dangers that could accompany an attempt to consummate their marriage, but he would not listen. Sansa was sure that he would try and put a son in her at the earliest opportunity, regardless of what it might do to her.

In his own ignorant, blustering way, he was little better than Ramsay Bolton.

* * *

 

 

On the morning that Stannis and his army marched out of Winterfell, Sansa felt terrible. The sun was only just beginning to rise – but she had been awake for hours.  Wylla was curled up on her pallet by the fire under a small mountain of furs, still sleeping, but Sansa stood by the window, pressing her forehead against the cold glass.

She had not slept, and there was a dull headache buzzing at the back of her skull. Stannis’s men had been clanking across the courtyard since the early hours of the morning, but it was not the sounds of men in armour saddling their horses that had kept her awake.

She would be married tomorrow, and she was terrified.

After that, she might only have months left to live; she still had not healed from the Bolton boy’s assaults. Ser Harys was not a man familiar with restraint. Tomorrow evening, he would consummate their marriage, whether she liked it or not.

She would not let that happen. She had not yet decided if she would be better served feigning sleeplessness and getting essence of nightshade from the maester, or simply making sure that Ser Harys drank so much that he would not even be able to see her, let alone touch her. Either way, she would not be opening her legs for him tomorrow night.

There was a knock at the door and Wylla sat up at once. A serving man entered – an old man called Torrhen who helped the maester with his ravens – and the second the door was opened Sansa heard a flurry of voices and the clattering of many chests being carried down the stairs. Evidently, Stannis had not yet packed his bags.

“Raven for you, milady,” said Torrhen. Sansa felt a little stab of relief that he had been the one to deliver the message; he had never learned to read.

She smiled, and took it from him. “Thank you, Torrhen. Have you eaten?”

He shook his head.

“Then run down to the kitchens and ask one of the cooks to fry you up a kipper. I know how much you like them.”

He grinned at her, showing all the gaps in his teeth. He thanked her and left, shutting the door behind him, and Sansa unrolled the scroll.

_The lions drowned. Their banners are waiting for the stag. They meant to burn Winterfell with pyromancers’ tricks – say the word and it shall be destroyed. HR_

Sansa let out a sharp intake of breath, and thanked the gods she had had the foresight to send the Reeds a case of Winterfell ravens along with her first messenger. It had paid off; Howland Reed had acquired a cache of wildfire from the Lannisters. She still remembered the green fire on the Battle of the Blackwater; it had burned in her nightmares for weeks afterwards. It had laid waste to Stannis’s entire fleet.

What could she do with a weapon like that?

And what could _Stannis_ do with it?

Wylla stood up, still draped in the furs she had been sleeping in. “Bad news, my lady?”

Sansa’s mind was whirring. She could not let Stannis know about the wildfire; he would demand it from her, and the gods only knew what his red priestess would do with it. But now Wylla had seen her receive the message, she could not keep Stannis from hearing about it. If he grew suspicious, he might delay his departure and stay for her wedding, and she would never be rid of Ser Harys then…

An idea came to her.

“Oh, Wylla,” she said, her eyes filling with tears, “you must fetch Ser Harys at once!”

Wylla left the room at once, and the second she closed the door, Sansa threw the scroll on the fire. Then, she pulled out quill and parchment, and set to work.

* * *

 

 

When Ser Harys arrived, breathless and with his long hair dishevelled, Sansa looked immaculate. Her hair was loose and gleaming around her shoulders, her white dress spotlessly clean, and her blue eyes were filled with tears. A scroll of parchment was crumpled in her hand, and Ser Harys saw it at once.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here!” she cried, crossing the room in three sides, “I don’t know what to do!”

“What is it? What’s happened?” he snapped.

“I’ve had terrible tidings from Lord Reed,” she said, handing him the scroll, “he defeated the Lannisters just as His Grace planned, but he tells me the Riverlands are worse than ever! The Freys have been reaving and raping every village within thirty miles of the Twins! He said…he said…”

Sansa buried her face in her hands as Ser Harys read the message. It spoke of the gruesome things that had been done to the smallfolk of the Riverlands – some of which were true – and implored Stannis to send his troops down to the Riverlands as quickly as possible.

She knew exactly what it said; she had written it herself. She had made sure to include a particularly nasty story that Ramsay had told her about a young girl, who if her late husband’s stories were to be believed, was about the same age as the Princess Shireen.

She looked up at Ser Harys, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. His face was dark, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

“That poor child,” she said, her voice still heavy with the weight of her own tears, “she was so young! How can we send our royal family into such a dangerous situation?”

Ser Harys tucked the scroll inside his jerkin and gave her a condescending smile. “It is the duty of kings to bring law to the lawless, sweetling. It is good of you to worry, but a king’s true place is on the battlefield.”

She dabbed at her eyes again. “I know, my lord. Stannis will set the Riverlands to rights, but – but what about the Queen, and the little Princess? It breaks my heart to think of them walking into such a lawless place.”

Ser Harys led her over to a chair and made her sit down. He took her hands, still smiling. “Never fear, my lady. Stannis has many men to protect them, he would not see his family harmed.”

Sansa fought to keep her frustration from showing and sniffed loudly. “You are right, of course…but the Princess Shireen is such a spirited child; if she should grow tired of being confined to her tent and seek amusement away from the safety of the camp…oh, I cannot bear to think about it! And after the things I saw in the flames…”

Ser Harys’s grip tightened. He stiffened at once, the smile falling from his face, and Sansa bit back a smile. At last, he had taken the hint.

“Do not fret, sweetling. If it please you, I shall speak to Stannis, and see if he would leave Shireen at Winterfell until the Freys have been defeated.”

She gave him a dazzling smile. “I knew you would know just what to do! Would you speak to him, my lord? I should love to have Shireen safe at Winterfell – she could stay for our wedding!”

Ser Harys kissed her hands, pride glowing all across his face, and straightened up. She could practically see his mind clunking into gear as he imagined himself the Princess Shireen’s protector.

“I shall speak to him. Never fear; all shall be well.”

He left, and Sansa smiled at Wylla, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the latest chapter! Hope you guys enjoy it - and remember to keep the feedback coming! :)

When the Baratheon army left, Sansa stood on the battlements of the outer walls, with Ser Harys and the Princess Shireen at her side. The princess was crying, tears glistening on her grey cheek, and she was trying desperately not to show it.

Ser Harys stood behind them, one hand on each of their shoulders, brimming over with pride. He had sought out Stannis himself, handed over the fake message, and sworn that he would protect Stannis’s family until his last breath. At first, he had been reluctant – especially as the Red Priestess wanted to keep the princess close – but after a few choice words from Ser Davos and Ser Harys swearing his allegiance several times, he had relented. The Queen had refused to leave her husband, and Stannis took with him a case of Winterfell ravens so that he might send for his daughter.

Ser Harys had told her all of this in great detail, his chest swelling with the force of his own self-importance as he spoke.

Sansa was well pleased with the arrangement. Ser Harys was an utterly transparent man, and one that Stannis trusted. If she had gone to the king herself, his suspicious nature would have ensured that he never listened to her suggestion. She might have been left with a garrison of soldiers to watch her every move, but instead, she was left with only Ser Harys’s bannermen – all six of them – and a valuable hostage.

Besides, while Ser Harys had been pleading his case with Stannis, she had dispatched a rider to Greywater Watch, telling them to send the case of wildfire back to Winterfell after Stannis’s men had passed through the swamps. Once the last Baratheon soldier was safely in the Riverlands, the Reeds would melt back into the waters, and no matter how much Stannis pleaded with them, they would never guide him back to Winterfell.

Sansa had made sure of that.

They watched the Baratheon army pass through the gates, waving at them from the battlements. In the crowd, Sansa spotted the litter that carried Walda Frey. Stannis was marrying her off to one of his generals – Lord Kennington, if she remembered correctly – and would be installing them at the Twins the second the fortress had been conquered. Sansa wondered what kind of a husband Lord Kennington would make – and what kind of father he would be to Roose Bolton’s child.

She felt a little twinge of regret.

Soon, the last of the Baratheon forces tailed out of sight. Shireen sniffed loudly and Sansa put a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t cry, Princess,” she said, handing Shireen her handkerchief, “I know you must miss your father, but he will send for you soon enough. He only left you here because it will be that much safer for you.”

Shireen said nothing. Her jaw was very tightly clenched, as if she was trying not to cry.

Ser Harys shepherded them down from the battlements. Sansa offered Shireen her arm and she took it, her feet sliding across the packed-down snow.

“I shall be glad to have you at my wedding, Princess,” Sansa continued, “I think it would bring good luck to Winterfell to be married with the blessing of the royal family. You must tell me what you plan on wearing, and we can be a matched set.”

Shireen glanced down at her grey wool dress, suddenly looking worried. “We didn’t know you’d be marrying when we came here,” she mumbled, “I don’t have much.”

They climbed down the stairs to the battlements and came into the courtyard. Sansa smiled.

“If you like, Princess, I could see if there is anything in the castle that might suit you. Perhaps some of my sister’s old gowns…”

Shireen looked up at her, surprised. “You have a sister? Where is she?”

Sansa felt a lump come to her throat. “I don’t know.”

A little crease appeared in between Shireen’s eyebrows as she looked up at her. Then, she smiled.

“I bet her dresses were lovely,” she said, giving Sansa’s arm a little squeeze.

* * *

 

 

The day of Sansa’s wedding dawned bright and early. Sansa watched the sun come up herself.

She had done what she could. She had given orders that several pitchers of wine were to be sent up to her room that evening. She had gone to the maester and feigned sleeplessness, and now there was a small bottle of essence of nightshade at the bottom of her clothes-chest, just in case. She had posted guards outside the ravens’ tower, so that nobody would send messages without her knowledge, and she had made Wylla Princess Shireen’s handmaiden, finally getting a moment’s peace from her silent, watchful eyes. The Princess Shireen was effectively her hostage – although she was careful to make sure that the little princess did not feel that way – Stannis’s men would not be coming back through the Neck, and she had finally acquired a sworn shield.

But she would still be marrying Ser Harys.

With Stannis’s army so close, she could do very little to stop the marriage from going ahead. If she killed him – and she did not want the North to know if she was capable of that yet – his bannermen would only have to ride along the kingsroad for an afternoon before they met the Baratheon army. It would not be enough time for the Reeds to deliver their wildfire, and she did not want to put Winterfell through another protracted siege.

It seemed as if she really would have to marry Ser Harys.

She glanced out of her window, and saw the shape of the North Gate through the snows. The Boltons’ heads were still there, covered in tar and frost.

Then again, her previous marriage had not been a long one, either. All she needed was an opportunity.

* * *

 

 

Princess Shireen helped her dress.

Sansa had insisted on having her there – it was always useful to make a good impression on royalty. The serving-women had dug out one of Arya’s old gowns that fitted Shireen very well: it was blue with a pale grey underskirt and a high collar. It was simple, but Shireen seemed to love it, and the colour complimented her blonde hair well. Sansa had brushed it and pinned it up herself, and wished Shireen was the one getting married instead.

She had done her best to remain calm. As the maids helped her into her elaborate white gown – the same one she had married Ramsay in – she had chatted to the little princess, asking her how she ought to wear her hair, and what she thought of her dress. She had smiled at everyone she came into contact with, and kissed the little girl who brought her a fistful of blue winter roses on both cheeks.

She did it all feeling as if she was looking at her life from a great distance, the panic slowly mounting up inside her.

But then the knock came at her door, and Theon pushed it open, and it was as if she was back in the Boltons’ clutches again.

He had been washed. His hair was neatly combed, his skin was scrubbed so raw it looked bright pink, and he was dressed in clean clothes – the same clothes he had worn on the night of Sansa’s last wedding. But he walked like a sleeper, and he had to blink his eyes three times before he could focus on anything.

She wondered what the maester had given him.

“He says I’m to take your arm,” Theon muttered, his words slurring together.

She moved as if her feet were being pulled along on strings. This time, she took his arm, and relief washed over Theon’s face.

They headed down to the godswood.

There was some small part of her that was raging. It thrashed around inside her like a caged animal, throwing itself against the bars. But that part of her was buried, sitting deep under layers and layers of ice that froze her smile in place.

As they headed across the courtyard, every step seemed impossibly loud. Her own footfalls sounded like crypt doors closing. A numbness was spreading through her veins.

They entered the godswood.

Princess Shireen was already there, standing right at the front in the place of honour. The maester stood before the heart tree, and the Northern lords crowded around it, all of them looking sullen. Brienne was there too, her armour gleaming, standing behind the little princess.

And there was Ser Harys, standing before the heart tree that he wanted to burn down.

He was smiling at her.

She squared her shoulders, and took a step forward.

To her surprise, Theon faltered.

He had stopped dead in his tracks, staring at Ser Harys. All the colour had drained from his face. She took a step away from him, disentangling her arm from his.

“Theon?”

His eyes were darting all around the godswood, so fast that they seemed to be rolling in their sockets.

“A trick,” he muttered, “where’s…where’s Lord Ramsay… ’s a trick…”

Sansa glanced at Brienne, who started forward at once. Ser Harys sprang after her.

“Theon,” she began, edging away from him, “Theon, listen –”

“Reek!” Theon shrieked, his voice shrill, “my name is Reek!”

“Be still, Theon, please…”

Ser Harys barged in front of her. He grabbed her arm, dragging her away from Theon, and poked him in the chest.

“Listen here, you worm,” he began, jabbing his finger into Theon’s chest.

That was as far as he got.

There was a blur and Ser Harys staggered backwards, clutching his hand and screaming. His hand was covered in blood and as he lurched back, something fell to the ground, staining the snow red.

It was a finger.

Theon was holding a knife, he was covered in blood, and he was staring straight at her, all sanity gone from his face. He lunged for her. She darted sideways, diving into the snow and scattering the wedding guests. Theon lost his balance, pitching forwards, and before he had time to so much as turn towards her Brienne was there, her sword drawn.

“Don’t hurt him!” Sansa screamed.

With one strike, the knife went spinning out of Theon’s hand. He collapsed, shaking, crouching on his hands and knees like an animal.

Sansa picked herself up, shaking the snow from her skirts. The Northern lords were all drawing their swords, muttering to each other, and over by the heart tree Shireen was whimpering into her handkerchief.

“Put away your swords,” Sansa commanded, her voice clear and steady, “this is a sacred place. I will have no more bloodshed here.”

She did not look around to see who had obeyed her. She took a step forward, and Brienne circled around at once, keeping her sword in between her and Theon.

The godswood was silent.

“It’s all right, Theon,” Sansa murmured, in the tone her sister had used to calm wayward horses, “it’s all right. Lord Ramsay is dead. He cannot hurt you now.”

Theon said nothing. He just shook in a heap on the floor.

“I know you are afraid,” she said, taking another step towards him, “that’s all right, too. You have suffered much, and it has made you…unwell.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I am your friend, Theon,” she murmured, “we played monsters and maidens here, as children. You always used to like being the monster best, and tried to make Arya and me be the maidens every single time, even though you knew how much she hated it. Once, you tried to climb the heart tree and could not get down, and we had to persuade you to jump down from the branches. You nearly broke your leg. Do you remember?”

He looked up at her, tears in his eyes, and a little of his frenzy seemed to clear.

She laid a hand on Brienne’s arm, forcing her to lower her sword.

“Those are Theon’s memories, not Reek’s,” she said, very gently.

Theon blinked at her several times, and then nodded.

Sansa crouched down and held out her hands to him. She helped him to his feet.

“I will send you home, Theon,” she said, “back to Pyke. Your sister will be there; she can take care of you. You might remember more of yourself on the Iron Islands. Would you like that?”

Slowly, Theon nodded.

She smiled.

“Don’t worry, Theon –”

Ser Harys lunged forward.

Theon let out a little gasp and slumped forward, slamming into her. A knife was lodged in his back.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! As I'm sure you've all worked out, this chapter is going to be a little bit gory, so feel free to skip parts of it if you're squeamish about that sort of thing. Thanks for the feedback - I really appreciate it!

She had never realised that a body could be quite so heavy.

Theon’s weight was pushing her backwards. He slumped forwards, his head lolling over her shoulder like an overgrown child. She could hear him breathing in her ear; it sounded wet, as if something was bubbling in his lungs.

Her mouth was open. Her eyes were wide. She felt like a statue, unable to move, or speak, or scream.

“Your brothers,” Theon rasped, his voice so quiet she could barely hear it over the whistling wind, “they’re alive. ’m…. ’m sorry…”

Ser Harys reached out, still cradling his bloody hand to his chest, and pulled Theon off her. He tugged at his shoulder and Theon keeled over, landing on his back, sending the knife bursting through his chest.

Her hands were shaking. When she covered her mouth, she felt them trembling, fluttering against her skin like a tiny heartbeat. Over by the heart tree, Shireen began to sob.

Brienne placed a hand on her arm, her armour clanking as she moved. “Are you all right, Lady Stark?”

Sansa blinked very rapidly. Her tears would not come. She felt cold all over; perhaps they had frozen, and she would have to wait for them to thaw out.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice very hoarse, “yes.”

She stood very still, her mind whirring.

Slowly, she turned away from Theon’s body. She beckoned a serving girl over, who staggered towards her on uncertain feet, the poor girl’s whole body shaking.

“See to the princess and her handmaiden,” she croaked, “take them back to their chambers. Don’t…don’t let them see.”

The serving girl bobbed a curtsey and scurried over to Wylla and Shireen. She took their hands and dragged them out of the godswood, leading them around the back of the crowd – well out of sight of Theon’s corpse.

“See to the _princess_?” someone snarled.

Sansa looked up.

Ser Harys was glaring at her, his face bone-grey. His lips were white, set into a thin line, and he looked at her as if he wanted to hit her. He thrust his hand out at her. For a moment, she thought he would strike her – Brienne’s arm shot out in front of him – but he was only showing her his wounded right hand. His index finger was completely severed, along with his thumb and a good part of the side of his hand. The blood spattered onto her white dress, and she clapped her hand over her mouth, fighting back the urge to be sick.

“The _princess_?” he said again, swaying as he spoke, “I’ve lost half my hand, woman!”

“Mind your tongue!” snapped Brienne.

“You mind yours, wench!” he spat, glaring up at Brienne, “I am the Lord of Winterfell and Stannis Baratheon’s Warden of the –”

Sansa stopped listening. She stared down at Theon’s corpse. He had not been Reek, in his last moments. His old memories had made him the Theon she had known when she was just a girl, and Ser Harys had killed him all the same.

Would he have turned on her? When his madness returned, would he have come after her again? After their conversation in the crypts, she had hoped he could be cured – his memories seemed to bring him back to himself –

An idea came to her.

She looked up. Ser Harys’s fingers lay forgotten in the snow, steaming in a little pool of blood. He was still arguing with Brienne, and almost seemed to have forgotten Sansa entirely.

“– never be a swordsman again! How can I hope to –”

Sansa started forward, her eyes wide.

“Fetch the maester,” she said, laying a hand on Ser Harys’s arm. “Quickly! If you act now, he may be able to save your fingers!”

Ser Harys whirled around. He scooped up his severed fingers and thrust them in the maester’s face.

“I want them sewn back on this instant,” he snapped, “d’you hear? You must save my swordhand; the king will reward you for it.”

The maester peered down at the wound. “I will do what I can, Ser Harys,” he said, “but truly, I do not think that would be wise. It would be better to seal the wound with fire than to risk –”

Ser Harys grabbed the maester’s collar, pulling him forwards. “I am the Lord of Winterfell!” he yelled. “You will save my swordhand!”

He lurched out of the godswood, the maester hobbling along behind him. Sansa called over another servant, and tried not to look at Theon’s body. It was turning the snow around him red.

“Do what you can for him,” she said, her voice weary, “I will send for the Silent Sisters; they will see him home to Pyke.”

The servant nodded, and Sansa walked from the godswood, her limbs as heavy as lead.

* * *

 

 

She had not wanted to see Ser Harys, but she could not afford to leave him alone for too long. She had no desire to witness the maester’s attempts to sew his fingers back on, but if she left him to his own devices, he may well try to send a raven to Stannis and tell him what had happened.

She posted a couple of servants outside the maester’s chambers, and told them to send for her the minute the surgery was finished. Then, she went to console the Princess Shireen.

The princess was badly shaken. Though she was covered in furs, she would not stop trembling, and her face was as pale as milk. Wylla was little better; both of them burst into tears at the sight of the blood on the hem of Sansa’s wedding gown. She had managed to persuade them to take a cup of hot, spiced wine, but even though she had sent for a tray of sweetmeats and cakes, neither of them wanted to touch the food.

“Won’t you eat something, Princess?” Sansa pleaded, pushing a small plate of lemon cakes towards her. “You would feel much better with a full belly.”

Shireen shook her head. Her lips were pressed together, her eyes brimming with tears.

Sansa patted her hand. “Never fear. Ser Harys is a warrior; it will take more than a little cut to lay him low. He has survived many battles, this will be no hardship for him.”

Shireen stared up at her. “But…but what if…”

Sansa smiled. “The maester will take care of him. I have faith.”

Someone knocked at the door. Sansa opened it herself, and saw one of the serving-men she had dispatched to the maester’s chambers.

“He wants to see you, milady,” the man muttered, peering at the greyscale on Shireen’s cheek.

Sansa nodded, bade Shireen and Wylla goodnight, and followed the serving-man to Ser Harys’s chambers.

They were shown in at once. Ser Harys was hunched in a chair, draped in furs, his hand swathed in thin strips of muslin. His face was very pale and covered in a sheen of sweat, his lips completely white.

She went over to him at once, kneeling by his chair.

“My lord,” she murmured, “was it a success?”

He smirked, waving his bandaged hand at her. “Do you see a stump, Lady Stark?”

She felt a little twinge of panic, but hid it. Instead, she let out a sigh of relief. “What did the maester say?”

“He says I will recover if it stays clean and dry. Never fear, my lady – it will take more than a madman scratching at my hand to vanquish me!”

He seemed to be having a great deal of trouble focusing on her, and she wondered if the maester’s advice was truthful. He was breathing very quickly, too, and a vein in his neck was twitching so fast it looked to be shaking.

She gave him a dazzling smile.

“I am so glad to hear it,” she said, getting to her feet. “Rest now, my lord – you will need your strength. You must recover quickly, so that we can be married.”

He smiled at her, his elbow slipping on the arm of his chair, and Sansa remembered Theon’s story about the maester who had sewn his cousin’s fingers back on and driven him to an early grave.

She left the room, still smiling.

* * *

 

 

Ser Harys died days later, as she had known he would.

She had not known if it was the technique or the maester that had killed Theon’s unfortunate cousin, but when it came to Ser Harys, that was a chance she was willing to take. As it turned out, it had been the technique – that, or an infection from Theon’s filthy blade.

He had died sweating, raving, his eyes rolling back in his head. They had taken his arm just before he died, but it was too late; the infection had been in his blood for far too long.

She had ordered the castle into mourning, dressed in black, and refused to leave her room for three days. She ordered no ravens to be flown, no songs to be sung, and – more discreetly – that none of Ser Harys’s bannermen should be allowed to leave the castle. Just to be sure, she had asked six of her prettiest serving-girls to attend to their needs. She had told them in no uncertain terms that they were only supposed to listen to their sorrows and bring their food and mead, and that if there were any problems, they were to come straight to her.

She was sure that at least one of them was already pregnant.

She kept to her room for a week. There was much to do – not least of which was investigating what Theon had told her about her brothers – but she could not afford to seem callous. She must be seen to be mourning Ser Harys, even if she had hated him. Sometimes, she awoke in the middle of the night, plagued by guilt-ridden dreams. After all, she had killed a man, although it was not by her own hand.

Most nights, she went back to sleep. After all, if she had married him, he would have killed her too – although certainly not with his hands.

When she finally emerged from her chambers, she made sure that her eyes were red with tears. Her lords and smallfolk had no love for Ser Harys, or his Stormlander knights, but it would not do to let them think she rejoiced in his death. If they all saw her tear-streaked face, they would not suspect her of having a hand in it.

They held the funeral on the day she emerged from her chambers. They had built a huge pyre – eating into Winterfell’s wood stores, she could not help but think – and Ser Harys’s body lay upon it, draped in white. She led the procession into the wolfswood, sorrow scrawled all across her face, and wondered how kindly her smallfolk had treated Theon’s body.

She had sent him south on a ship, back to the Iron Islands, and hoped the crew would be treated gently.

Someone handed her a flaming torch. It was one of her Northern lords, and as he passed it to her his fingers brushed across the back of her hand. She may have been rid of Ser Harys, but she was by no means free of another marriage. She could delay it as long as it took for her injuries to heal, but after that she would have no choice but to look for another husband. She would never be short of suitors as the Lady of Winterfell – just that morning, Lord Baelish had written to her, telling her that he was sailing north to visit her – but for now, she would make them wait.

She leaned forward and lit the pyre.

The straw caught at once, the flames dancing along underneath the dry wood, and soon, Ser Harys’s body was completely engulfed in flames. The smoke stung her eyes and Sansa was grateful for it; it made it easier to keep up the pretence of tears.

When it was over, Brienne led her back to her chambers.

Then, and only then, Sansa smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's over! Insert coin to continue. :P 
> 
> In all seriousness, I am toying with the idea of writing a final part to this series - please let me know if you'd like to see more!


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